


At Night I Miss Going Out (On Patrol)

by DeadshotDiesel



Category: Justified
Genre: M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Raylan is a softie, Things will get better, Tim is a sweetheart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-26
Updated: 2013-10-26
Packaged: 2017-12-30 14:02:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1019491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeadshotDiesel/pseuds/DeadshotDiesel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Where are we going?"</p><p>"As far as we can go." Raylan is tired. He can feel the ache settle in. He's not as young as he once was. "As far as it takes us, Tim." He amends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At Night I Miss Going Out (On Patrol)

**Author's Note:**

> Un-betaed. 
> 
> First time I posted on here. I'm really liking the upload format that AO3 uses. If you spot anything off or have advice on how to post Word Docs, just hit me up.

It was one of those nights. The nights where alcohol isn't as appealing as it was the day before and the long stretch of night is still meandering into the too far future until sunrise. Here, Raylan has at his fingertips a bar load of beers and liquors, but all Raylan can do is stare at the light that bounces through the glasses and bottles as it dances on the wall behind. He reasons with himself after the fourth abortive attempt at downing his Jack that what he really wants is quiet. That kind of quiet that your brain goes stupid in fear of being deaf so it makes shit up and the next thing you start hearing is phantom footsteps and ghostly voices calling your narcissistic name. But he doesn't care. He wants that mind numbing white noise that blinds the sense of hearing, leaving him with his ghosts.

 

So he skulks out into the packed parking lot of the bar, falls into the driver's seat of his Lincoln Town Car, and takes off into the black of night. He ends up taking the scenic route home, hoping that the distance will begin to ease his mind, listening to the soft bluegrass pouring from the radio that at this hour is more static than actual sound. Cracking the windows lets the cooling summer breeze roll in off the nearby mountains and hills bringing the relief that the blistering day doesn't. There isn't much of anything to see, but a tunnel of trees encasing the road.

 

By the time he parks the car and kills the engine, he's startled to realize there is a figure on his crummy porch sprawled against the supporting post. The motel room's porch light leaves the figure silhouetted, making Raylan want to whine like a kicked dog. All he wants is peace, but his mind starts running through who wants to kill him this time and ends up at 'who gives a fuck.' He's too tired for this shit. He's just hoping that whoever it is will give him a reason to pull.

 

Straightening his hat and checking his holstered gun, he climbs out of the Lincoln and saunters up to the figure. Just as he opens his mouth to demand something, anything, none other than Tim Gutterson beats him to it. "You weren't home."

 

Raylan lost whatever second wind he got from a possible fight and let his shoulders slump. Glancing back, he doesn't understand how he didn't see Tim's big, black SUV pulled up front, off to the side where the meager light doesn’t reach. He tugged his hat off to let it sit on the porch's table, then let himself drop down beside Tim. He's got a nasty looking blade flicking between those fingers. Raylan watches how tight those muscles in his arms are clenched and how straight his shoulders are pulled. There's something frightening about those blue eyes sitting in shadows, but also something feral and hysteric. They never leave the tree line or the road. Always scanning and searching. "No, I wasn't." Raylan settles his hand around the wrist with the knife loosely. "But I am now."

 

Tim's shoulders drop a degree and the knife stops its tumbling between scarred and callused fingers. This isn't the first and most likely not the last time Raylan has found Tim on his porch with that slightly crazed look in his eyes, but Raylan wishes it was. He understands PTSD. He's seen what it can do, but he's always thought Tim was stronger than that. He should have realized that Tim is strong, is stronger than most, stronger than him most often, but sometimes, some people, some things just weigh too heavy.

 

Raylan must have stood a little too quick, because Tim is already standing beside him in one fluid motion, never taking his eyes off the black inkiness sitting outside the halo of light. Their shoulders keep bumping together as Raylan opens the door and switches on the light inside, but as tradition seems to be, Tim stands right outside the door. Tossing his hat inside and grabbing a water bottle, Raylan checks that everything is still in place where he left it that morning. On his way back out, he spots the small afghan he got as a gift and grabs that too. He presses his shoulder back into Tim's as he locks up and Tim leans a little further than before.

 

His boots leave marks in the dirt as he returns to the Lincoln, never having to look back to see if Tim is following. Rather, he feels the press of Tim's hand clench around his belt before splitting up to fall into the passenger's seat. Raylan guns the car out into the street. "You finish-?"

 

"Yeah. Yeah, the others are all asleep." Tim settles in his seat, looking as if no position offers the relief of comfort. He idly taps against his knee; knife long since disappeared on his person. He slides down the seat, curving his spine in hopes to loosen tight muscle, then sits up straight once more.

 

Sighing, Raylan tossed the afghan at Tim. He helps get it spread across Tim's lap and the fingers stop tapping. They almost pet the blanket; soothing circles and protective one-way swipes. Leaning, Tim meets him halfway across the arm rest to touch shoulders once more. It seems to have a comforting effect on Tim, as he relaxes into the chair. "I finished. I did my route. Even with you not home, you're here now, I should be fine."

 

Raylan hums in both thought and just to let Tim know that he's there. Tim finally pries his eyes away from the tree line blurring past the window to press his nose against Raylan's shoulder. "I did my patrol. I kept watch."

 

Raylan flips his right hand palm up between them over the gear shifter as an invitation that Tim does not hesitate on taking. His grip is too tight as their fingers twine together, but Raylan doesn't fuss about it. They drive for a bit letting the now chilly, crisp air flow through, before Tim breaks the quiet, hot puffs of breath against the crest of Raylan's shoulder. "Where are we going?"

 

"As far as we can go." Raylan is tired. He can feel the ache settle in. He's not as young as he once was. "As far as it takes us, Tim." He amends.

 

Tim turns his head, resting his cheek where his nose was. An hour passes and they keep driving in the dark. Tim's eyes are starting to droop, but their gleaming alertness never fades. Raylan's knees and lower back are starting to cramp, but he's not concerned about it. An idea pops to mind as they pull up to a stop at a blinking red light. He rubs circles on Tim's hand, feeling him become more alert against his shoulder. "Tim." He pauses. "Tim. It's my turn." He rubs his cheek against Tim's hair. "I'll take over patrol for the rest of the night. You're off duty now, darlin'." And it's like magic, those simple words. Tim falls asleep almost instantly, too tired to fight now that he's unbound from duty.

**Author's Note:**

> Back at home, it's kind of strange  
> Ain't nuttin happenin, ain't nuttin changed  
> Same old rules, same old game  
> Still I'm haunted by the names  
> of all the friends, left behind  
> They weigh so heavy on my mind  
> At night I miss goin out on patrol...  
> The desert went and turned my warm heart cold
> 
> -Everlast, "Little Miss America"


End file.
